Happy Accidents
by AnUnstoppableWarrior
Summary: America wakes up with a hangover and no memory of the previous night. He knows he brought someone to bed, but can't remember who. At least, not until they confront him about it.


Considering I haven't been in this fandom in, oh, almost 3 years now (holy hell), I have no idea if something happened in the comics/show (is there still a show?) that would make these characters OOC. Typically, with Hetalia you can pretty much write them however you see fit but, for example, though Turkey looks like a badass he's actually really nice and sweet? (Except with Greece.)

But, eh, what can you do?

I was reading through old story ideas and had this mostly typed out already, and since I didn't completely hate it, the urge to finish it took hold and didn't let go.

There's three different add-ons I'm considering: the party, Turkey's POV, and after the meeting.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Mondays normally aren't something America ever wants to deal with, but Mondays with unavoidable World Meetings are an extra special kind of Hell.

And no it's not his fault he got fucking wasted the night before and is paying for it now.

He's the only one here, because he'd woken up at the ass crack of dawn to puke his stomach out, and he knew that if he slithered back into bed he'd never leave, definitely not in time for the meeting.

So he'd taken a shower and brushed his teeth twice, then taken four ibuprofen and downed them with coffee before getting kind of dressed and making his way to the meeting room. England will have a fit when he sees America's state of dress, but ask America if he gives a fuck.

(He doesn't.)

The door creaks open and America lifts his head slightly, enough to peek over his arm and squint at the group of Nations walking in early. He's not looking forward to having everyone comment on his exceptional attendance, least of all England who doesn't know when to let a dead horse lie.

It's Germany, big surprise there, as well as Prussia, Spain, and both Italys. America groans when he sees Prussia, tucking his head back into the safety of his arms and praying Prussia doesn't talk to him. The last thing he wants is to have Prussia on his case, nosy douche.

"America?" Spain is the one to ask, settling into a seat across from him. Predictably, Romano sits next to him. "You're here early."

America groans in response, tensing when he feels someone sit next to him.

"Rough night?" Prussia asks, snickering. America rolls his eyes, then winces when that action sends a jolt of pain through his head. Sighing heavily-obviously not in the mood-he lifts his head to glare at Prussia.

"No I just felt like coming in early because I hate making people wait," he croaks out, tone laden with sarcasm.

Prussia laughs his obnoxious laugh, and a memory of last night busts through the haze of alcohol hiding last night's events from his mind. He remembers Prussia being there, doing body shots off Ukraine, of all Nations. He also remembers Finland, Denmark, France, and...one of the Italys. Probably both, if he thinks about it, as they're rarely apart. He also remembers Belarus, which is terrifying.

"With what happened, I don't blame you for being a little hungover. Obviously someone awesome like me doesn't get fucked up the morning after, but not everyone can be this skilled," Prussia brags, elbowing him in the side none-to-gentle. "By the way, who'd you leave with? I lost track of you and Denmark around midnight."

America doesn't remember. He knows he was with someone, going by the ache in his body, but he doesn't remember who it was. Whoever it was, they were gone when America woke up.

"Was it Russia? I bet you're into weird shit like hatesex." America wants to punch Prussia's smug smirk right off his face, the bastard. Any other day and he'd take the jabs in stride, but today his temper's a lot shorter.

"Or maybe England? You seem like a daddy's boy." Prussia laughs at his own jibe and that's the last straw for America.

He turns towards Prussia and grabs the collar of his jacket, using his strength to hoist the defunct Nation into the air. He tends to not like using his unnatural strength against other Nations, for the principle of it, but Prussia only learns through experience.

"I'm not in the mood to talk, Prussia, so fuck off." He drops Prussia, who stumbles back and fixes his collar, affronted.

"Whoa! Unnecessary roughness, did you see that?" Prussia whines, turning towards the others for help. Germany is staring at a packet of paper but shaking his head. Romano is looking away, whistling, and Veneziano is staring at the table, humming. Spain is the only one acknowledging what just happened, a wide smile stretching his lips.

"I don't know…" Spain says, shrugging. "It looked like you provoked him to me."

"Tch, way to take his side," Prussia mutters, moving from America's side of the table to the other. America sits down and leans back in his chair, unwilling to lay his head down and have to lift it again. The weak pounding of his headache has grown into something distracting again, damn that Prussia.

The next Nation to come in is Japan, who politely greets them all and takes a seat at the end of the table. Normally America would jump at the chance to talk to Japan, about anything, but his lack of energy only lets him offer the Nation a small smile and a nod back.

Austria and Hungary are the next ones to arrive, shortly followed by the Nordics, then Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, and Ukraine, then China, Greece, and Switzerland.

Austria immediately heads for the seat next to Germany, pulling Hungary by the arm. America and her lock eyes and she winks, grinning as he flushes. He has a bad feeling she knows something of what happened last night, which doesn't bode well for him at all. He watches Prussia recount what happened a few minutes ago and smiles when Hungary laughs at him and calls him a bitch.

Turkey enters next, followed finally by Canada, France, and England, who is the one America pointedly doesn't look at. He tries to make himself as small as possible, slumping in his seat and staring at his lap, but England's hawk-eyes spot him anyway.

"Christ alive, up before ten? Bit unusual for you, innit?"

"Fuck off," America mutters, crossing his arms and definitely not pouting.

England, who undoubtedly took great offense to that and is about to tell him, never gets the chance when France slaps a hand over his mouth.

"Let the boy be, dear, he had a rough night."

America smiles faintly at France while England merely sits in the closest chair, turning his nose up at them, and France slides into the seat next to him. Canada settles into the seat on America's left, all five Nordics separating him from France and England. America claps a hand on his brother's back and they nod in greeting.

Turkey takes the seat to his right, two empty seats between Turkey and China, who's sitting next to Germany, who's at the head of the table. Once Russia and Belarus enter and fill those vacancies, Germany tells them all to shut up and begins.

The meeting progresses slowly and much like the shitshow it really is. Germany spends a great deal of time falling for every goad by any Nation not too hungover to hold a conversation, arguing back and forth with Prussia, France, and Japan. Sweden also joins in, which is almost enough to cure America's hangover, such a miracle it is. Sweden hardly says ten words a year in the presence of non-Nordic countries.

He gets away with just listening as the others argue, a blessing since he's developed a killer headache, thank you _very_ much Prussia, you twat.

Canada, ever the thoughtful one, must have known this was going to happen to him, because his wonderful, amazing brother produces a bottle of pain relievers and two bottles of water. America closes his eyes and promises to treat Canada like the treasure he is, before downing four more pills and chugging the first bottle.

A lunch break is called, and America shuffles out of the meeting room behind England, France, and Canada, not particularly excited to be in the presence of food right now. He'd manage to stave off the urge to vomit and would very much like to continue that. He sticks around long enough to grab a muffin he might be able to keep down, simply because he can't help himself, and makes his way back to the meeting room. Maybe an hour of relative quiet will help his headache.

The room is empty, thank fuck, and he sets the muffin on the table, debating if he should risk an upset stomach for the sake of a poppy seed muffin. He's so out of sorts that he doesn't hear the door open and someone step into the room until they clear their throat loudly.

He _doesn't_ yell, but he jumps and turns, putting a hand to his heart. "Turkey! Hell man, you scared me."

Turkey offers him a slight upturn of lips and cocks his head to the side. He doesn't say anything else.

America stares at him, slowly narrowing his eyes. He glances at the clock, watching the second hand tick by.

After several more seconds of painfully awkward silence, America is the one to clear his throat. "Is everything okay?" He asks, turning fully to lean on the table and face Turkey, ankles crossed and hands gripping the lip of the table. He doesn't think Turkey's going to do anything untoward, but damn, the other Nation is acting weirder than usual. Best to appear casual, though he has to consciously keep his strength in check lest he press fingerprints into the thick wood.

"Why would something be _not_ okay?" Turkey responds after a beat, a lazy smile appearing on the visible half of his face.

America is usually all for acting as the oblivious, happy-go-lucky idiot that causes so many Nations to underestimate him, but with his hangover and Prussia's earlier annoyances, he can't find it in him to play these games. Whatever Turkey's aim is, America couldn't care less.

"What do you want then?" It's not like he and Turkey are good friends, or buddy-buddy with each other. America would be hard pressed to skip out on a drink with a fellow Nation, even someone like Russia or China, but drinking and partying as Alfred is a far cry from standing as America and facing off against a Nation he honestly doesn't know that much about. And just once he'd like to attend one of these asinine meetings and not be forced into a dick measuring contest.

Turkey considers him, his smile transforming from downright lecherous to something softer, and America thinks suddenly like no one should smile like that at him, except maybe his brother or Japan.

"A repeat."

Ah-

Well.

That's not at all what America had been expecting. He realizes belatedly that his mouth is open and clicks his teeth together probably too quickly. The table is also supporting those ten shallow indents he tried and failed to save it from. Whoops.

"Sorry-what?" Damn good thing America is not known for being articulate.

Turkey steps closer to him, really close, maybe _way_ too close, until he physically can't step any closer, which, is really neither necessary nor helping the situation. America's already leaning back against the table with no escape, not with the way Turkey leans close to him and drops a hand, almost like a casual afterthought, to the table near his hip. The other hand lifts to remove his white mask and lay it on America's other side, second hand slotting into position to bracket him against the table, trapped on three sides by Turkey's looming presence.

Turkey's handsome, of course, sharing the same kind of ethereal beauty all Nations enjoy, in their own way. They're not perfect, not by a long shot, especially not to each other, but America can freely admit that beauty alone has lead to many of his strictly physical relations with others over his life. America's mind flashes a picture of Belarus as an example and he shivers. Turkey must take something from that because he leans back somewhat, but doesn't step away to make this less intimate than he's made it in the first place.

"All right?" He asks, voice pitched low but looking, for the first time, a little unsure. It makes America relax, despite himself. If Turkey wants something from this, surely, _surely_ , he'd have gotten it by now.

"Yeah," America says, because he is all right, even though Turkey's standing way too close to have any other meaning than intimacy. "What did you mean when you said 'repeat?'"

Turkey stares at him, face carefully blank now, and America has to put effort into not squirming.

"You don't remember last night."

It's not a question and doesn't need to be. America lets out a breath he'd been unknowingly holding in, closing his eyes briefly as the realization hits home.

"You're the one I went home with."

"Yes."

"And I'm guessing we had sex?"

Turkey doesn't seem to try all that hard at keeping the smirk off his face. "Among other things."

America raises a brow at that because, _other things_ , he doesn't even begin to know what that could entail. "Other things."

Turkey nods. "If you don't remember, I feel disinclined to tell you."

Which can only mean one thing, really, if he knows his own damn drunk self and Canada is to be believed, having nursed him back to sobriety many a time. "Please don't tell me I got weepy?"

Turkey laughs softly. "Then I won't. I will tell you that I thought it was very endearing."

America is unimpressed with what he realizes has been Turkey flirting with him this whole time, but his body responds to their proximity and Turkey's words by rushing blood up to his cheeks. He'll blame the blush as embarrassment over being prone to fits of tears while drunk.

Turkey leans back more, a whole foot back, but he slides his hands under America's and pulls both their hands up between them. Then he bends down and plants a chaste, dry kiss to each of America's hands.

His face is practically on _fire._

It's not like he's never experienced kindness before, or even been on the receiving end of a gentle hand. Well, usually not from other Nations, since he talks back in bed and enjoys slapping and choking as much as the next guy, but humans, when he finds the urge to court one, humans are often a lot more gentle. Considering his appearance as someone in their early twenties, the people that he takes up with are more often than not inexperienced, and therefore reluctant or hesitant to cater to his more...raunchy suggestions.

Turkey releases his grip on America's hands, leaving them suspended between them as he crowds America into the table again, hands once more on either side of America's hips. So close again, America's hands naturally settle on Turkey's chest, and he slowly slides them up to curl around the back of Turkey's neck. All the while, he weighs his options.

No one can force America to do anything. Physically, at least. No Nation can hold him down or restrain him unless he wishes them to, and even then he's safe knowing he can easily, with no effort, break any hold or bindings. Most Nations fall under one of two categories: turned on by being dominated so completely, or turned on by the illusion of control he allows them. There are certain Nations he goes to specifically when that need arises, but most of the time he plays it by ear.

Having been drunk and thus remembering nothing of his night with Turkey, or any night he's ever shared with the man(extremely few and far between as those trysts are), he can't remember which category Turkey falls under.

So, he decides to do what he always does in situations like this. He lets Turkey have the lead, keeping his strength at bay. Whatever Turkey has planned for this meeting, America will allow it-to an extent. After all, it's not like they're going to go at it on the damn table, but Turkey _did_ say he wanted a repeat. America's not dumb enough to fool himself into thinking that if they start, he'll just feel terribly turned on and irritable the rest of the day when they inevitably get interrupted.

"Is this okay?" Turkey asks, and they're close enough to share the same breath. Turkey's eyes are the strangest shade of brown, America notes, and wants to see them in the sun. He gets the feeling they'd sparkle like gold.

America's control of his strength is laughable at best when he's drunk, so maybe it did play a part last night. Turkey at least knows something about him he probably didn't mean to share.

America purses his lips, then when he sees Turkey's eyes drawn to the movement, wets them, licking a slow strip across his bottom lips. Turkey's pupils dilate and now it's America's turn to smirk.

"Yeah, what the hell."

He closes the distance between them and adjusts his arms more securely around Turkey's neck and shoulders. Turkey's hands lift to finally touch him, one sliding across his side, over his ribs, and the other settling on his hip, pushing slightly in clear instruction.

America takes the hint and hops up on the table, gasping as they separate and he can take a breath. His legs fall open to allow space for Turkey, who wastes no time to slink between his knees, capturing his mouth in another bruising kiss. Squirming, America scoots a little more onto the table so that their hips can't slot flush against each others, if anything then to save himself the embarrassment and irritatingly distracting hard-on for the rest of the meeting.

Turkey doesn't seem to mind, leaning forward to kiss him again while sliding the hand on his hip down to the top of his thigh, squeezing harshly. It's the only point of contact between them that belays Turkey's unhurried swipes of tongue across the teeth at the back of America's mouth, or the slow and encouraging slide of Turkey's hand across his lower back.

Making out is not easy when dress in layers and layers of formal wear. The meeting is in Italy, and it's nearly Winter. There's no snow, not in Rome, but there is something of a bite to the wind, and buildings like the one the meeting is being held in are always air conditioned to Hell (Ha!) and back. America doesn't wear his bomber jacket all that much anymore, as he's rarely somewhere cold long enough to necessitate it, but he'd seen it in his closet and packed in on a whim.

He can tell Turkey is frustrated by the layers between them. The hand at his lower back clutches at his bomber jacket, and blocked further by his suit jacket, dress shirt, and undershirt, forbidding skin-on-skin contact.

Turkey's not much better off. He's wearing a full suit under the thick trenchcoat he usually wears. To satisfy his need to touch, America returns his hands to Turkey's neck and uses one to cradle the side of Turkey's jaw, the other enjoying the pounding of his pulse. Turkey's skin is warm to the touch and America shudders when Turkey draws back, biting his lower lip. The urge to just rip their clothes off is strong and America has to mentally beat it back with a stick.

America draws back, breathing heavily, lips feeling hot and raw. Turkey, apparently unsatisfied with the loss of contact, noses along America's jaw and down to his throat, biting red marks above his collar.

"You're really not making this easy," America says breathlessly, gripping the short hair at the base of Turkey's neck, not pulling or pushing but-finding purchase. His headache isn't gone but it's a lot more tolerable now, and even despite the lack of contact between their lower halves, aside from America's knees squeezing Turkey's hips, he finds himself well on the way to a semi.

"Wait-" He tries but Turkey slots their mouths back together and shoves his tongue practically down America's throat. Moaning helplessly, America allows the kiss to continue, allows Turkey the opportunity to count his teeth with tongue alone, allows Turkey's hand at the small of his back to pull him to the edge of the table, allows both of Turkey's hands to grab each cheek of his ass and grind their groins together _hard_ , allows a loud moan to break their kiss, allows-

"Ahem."

All movement stills as Turkey pulls away from him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips are red and swollen. Like America, he's breathing heavily, and nigh impossible to look away from. Still, America adjusts his glasses and peers over Turkey's shoulder when it's clear he isn't going to move.

It's Canada, France, England, and Japan.

Because of course it is.

Canada is looking politely away, a small smile on his face. France is openly ogling them and winks when his and America's eyes meet. England is steadfastly looking down and to the right, face bright red. Japan too is looking politely away, his face only slightly pinked.

America looks at the clock. Ten minutes of lunch left. Oh.

He takes several deep breaths, finally pushing Turkey away. Turkey goes willingly, if unhappily, and picks up his mask to hide his face again. He pauses, still too close to be casual, seems to debate with himself before leaning close and giving America a chaste kiss this time, only lingering for a few seconds before moving his mouth to whisper in America's ear.

"I wasn't kidding about that repeat. Why don't you stay behind after the meeting?"

Turkey's breath is hot against his ear, and his words cause America's dick to twitch in the uncomfortably tight confines of his pants. Dammit, this is exactly what he didn't want to happen.

"Yeah," He breathes, "Yeah, all right."

Turkey smiles as he pulls away, then offers only a nod to the others before walking to his seat which, of fucking course, is _right_ next to America's. The fleeting thought that his erection might have had a chance to soften into something bearable before the rest of the meeting is blown away by the phantom feeling of teeth on his throat and a hand grasping tightly to this thigh.

Fuck.

He hops down from the table, grimacing at the constricting tightness of his pants, and eyes the clock again. He can't subject himself to sitting next to Turkey for _hours_ , because knowing himself like he does, all he's going to be thinking about is getting Turkey's cock down his throat, right there in a room of his colleagues. Highly inappropriate to say the least, plus what with Belarus sitting next to Turkey, he doesn't want to have her, and, by extension, probably Russia pay any more attention to him than strictly necessary.

 _Fuck it_.

"I'm just gonna-you know…" He gestures vaguely and trails off, walking past the Nations still standing at the door, mind set definitively on the fastest jerk off session he's ever going to achieve in a public bathroom.

"Would you-"

"No."

France only laughs.

He's late to the regroup, much to Germany's ire. America gives Germany a winning smile and a thumbs up, taking his seat without much fanfare. Turkey nods at him but otherwise doesn't acknowledge him, which America doesn't take personally because his headache is gone, his body is humming with the satisfaction of release, and the small smirk on Turkey's face promises more.

* * *

Disclaimer: It's probably a good thing I don't own these characters.

Any mistakes are my own.


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